My favorite makeup is the dirt covering a woman after a long day planting and weeding in the fields, or the grease from servicing a GE CF34 on a regional jet. It’s the bits of thread strewn through her hair when sewing her latest project, or the sweet mixture of sweat and tears after setting a new PR on the clean and jerk. It’s the ink stains on her fingers after completing her latest novel, and the blood from her encounter with the concrete at the skate park. When a woman wear that make-up it’s like ambrosia to me.

Otherwise, I prefer no make-up (and no, not the “no make-up look” make-up). My wife doesn’t put it on for me, because she knows it will have the opposite effect as it has on most men. I find the taste of lipstick unpleasant, and does anyone really prefer their make-outs to result in concealer and foundation and blush on their lips? But she does wear make-up, on occasion, because it’s her face, not mine, and therefore her decision (as much as any of these things are our decisions).

Politically I’m opposed to all the many potions and concoctions we’ve told women they must wear to be “acceptable” in public. And unlike Alyssa and Joanna’s partners, I don’t think my wife is beautiful when she’s “all done up.” Instead, I silently rage against a culture that tells women they have to be done up to be beautiful. I seethe against a culture where a woman’s physical appearance is weighted more than whether she’s kind or clever. And I’m thankful I don’t have a daughter who, despite my best efforts, will still heed the nagging voice every so often telling her she needs to be just a little bit prettier.